


Recompense

by first_tuesday



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:02:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/first_tuesday/pseuds/first_tuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soldier condemned to be shot at dawn during World War 1 settles a score with the officer who signed his death warrant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recompense

**Author's Note:**

> The rough draft of this story was found among my late father's belongings - and I hope that in finishing it and sharing it, I've made him proud.

It was all a bit odd from the beginning, if he’d thought about it. 

There were people in the entrance hall, but apparently no reception desk. There was a notice board on one wall, however, and when he looked at it he saw a typed list of names – including his own – telling him that he would occupy room 45 on the first floor. He looked in vain for either porters or a lift before moving towards the stairs, and then a commotion made him turn back towards the lobby. 

The swing doors through which he had entered were being pushed in vain by a red-faced, perspiring man who seemed to be trying to leave. A few bystanders were watching idly, and it seemed to him – curiously - that some of their faces looked familiar, but no-one made any effort to help. 

The red-faced man turned away from the door, his face a mixture of anger and fear; he clutched a folder under one arm, and papers began to spill from it onto the floor. “I’ve been trying to leave for hours now. I’ve only been here one night, and I don’t want another like it.” 

“It’s no good, you know,” another man said as he sidled over; several medals decorated his blazer, but even without them his upright bearing would have proclaimed his former career. “I’ve been here a week, and nobody’s got out at all.”

“I was invited to a refresher course,” a third man said, and he fumbled unsuccessfully in his pockets. “This is ridiculous! I know I’ve got the letter somewhere!” and although his companions gave similar explanations – a reunion, a lecture, an awards ceremony – not one of them could manage to produce any documents to prove why they were there. 

He crossed the foyer and climbed the stairs to the first floor before moving along a corridor, carpeted in dingy brown matting, where none of the doors had numbers on them. How on earth was he supposed to determine where room 45 was, he asked himself as he walked back the way he had come - and then a door opened to his left. When he looked inside the room he could see a table; a folder rested on it, and when he stepped into the room for a closer look he saw that the manila cover bore his name. _This must be it_ , he thought, but as he turned to close the door he found that not only was it already shut but that it didn’t have a handle on the inside. 

The room was clean – if somewhat spartan – and the bed was made with fresh linen. There was no fireplace, and no other furniture save for a thin wardrobe, an easy chair and a table with a lamp. At the far end of the room were curtains which, when drawn back, revealed not a window but an opaque glass panel through which he could see nothing at all. On the wall facing the bed was what seemed to be a serving hatch, but one that had no visible means by which it could be opened.

“Welcome,” a quiet voice said, making him turn round abruptly in the hope of finally meeting someone who could tell him what was going on – but there was no-one there. “We hope that you will find your quarters comfortable. Nothing has been overlooked in order to make you feel like one of us. Meals will be brought to your room to spare you the tedium of uncongenial company.”

In the silence that followed he clenched his hands, baffled by what had happened so far. His watch seemed to have stopped; even when he shook it, it remained firmly stuck at 10.30. He opened his suitcase, and began to put his things away in the wardrobe next to the bed – then, being a man of inflexible habit, he sat at the table and began to write in his diary: 

_Jan. 29th, 1928. Having received an invitation to participate in a seminar on the war, travelled down and arrived at destination early evening. Having unaccountably left correspondence at home, cannot recall sender – some military club or other. Odd place; service poor._

Here he paused – if this was a seminar, where did it all take place? He turned and looked at the door with no handle – how would he get anywhere, though? Although the staff was apparently able to communicate with him, he didn’t appear to have the means to make contact with them or with his fellow travellers.

The voice spoke again, and with something akin to relief he heard it say, “Your meal is ready, if you will go to the serving hatch.” He crossed the room, looked into the now-open hatch and stared in disbelief at what he saw – a sandbag with something inside it, and an old Army petrol can with an awful smell of chlorine about it. Forcing himself to investigate the bag, he opened it and drew out a squashed and dirty loaf, a tin containing jam and another holding condensed milk, and a linen bag which held a mixture of tea and sugar. 

“Look here,” he said, his voice rising as he clenched his fists, “what the hell is this?”

“Oh, of course, you haven’t used a Tommy cooker before,” the voice said, and he fancied that it held a hint of irony. “So sorry – just light the block under that tin in the wardrobe, it’ll only take about fifteen minutes to heat the water.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” he shouted angrily. “I’ve had enough of this – how dare you invite someone of my stature here and then have the audacity to treat him like this? I’m walking out of here, and I shall be complaining to your superiors in the strongest terms possible!”

“Oh, I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” the voice replied with maddening smoothness. “You mightn’t find it very easy, anyway.”

“We’ll soon see about that,” he answered, and strode over to the door where he searched for any way in which he might prise it open. After some minutes he paused, flushed and angry, which was not like him at all; he’d never been particularly communicative or demonstrative, and this was all too silly for words. 

Hot and frustrated, he turned back to the wardrobe, where he removed what he had been told to use in order to provide himself with his meal. The Tommy cooker was a simple enough device, and after he had filled it with some of the foul-smelling water he lit the spirit block. Fifteen minutes or so later, he was drinking the most dreadful mug of tea he had ever tasted; after a few sips he put it down, because he really couldn’t bear any more of it. As for the bread and jam, that was too disgusting for words. Well, no matter; as soon as he managed to get out of here – and he would, no matter what that annoying voice had told him – he would head for his club, where they knew how to treat a fellow with a bit of respect, and he would be enjoying a steak before sleeping in a comfortable bed. Then home to Dorothy and the children, where everything would return to normal.

He forced himself to sit down in the easy chair and consider his position. Although there was no visible source of illumination, nor any windows looking outside, the room was brightly lit. He could obviously be heard, although there was no microphone – and what was that strange glass screen for? He seemed to be helpless, a state of being that was unpleasant enough in itself, and there seemed to be no alternative but to await the return of the voice.

It came again, the words as smooth as if a butler had spoken them. “I’m sorry the food wasn’t to your liking, sir, but it’s what lots of us had to put up with for a long time.”

He realised, with heightened alarm, that whoever was speaking could see into the room as well – what sort of place was this? The new-fangled “wireless” was one thing, but this business of being spied on by an invisible someone was enough to make his flesh creep; and then a sudden thought struck him.

“Look here,” he said, “you’re obviously a military man, and if this is some kind of practical joke -”

“Oh no, it’s no joke, sir, I can assure you,” the voice interrupted him. “Twelve years ago you signed a paper with my name on it, and I swore then that we would meet again.”

“I signed lots of bits of paper twelve years ago. Who are you?”

“The seminar will begin in two minutes.”

The light dimmed, and the strange screen began to glow. A rumbling sound echoed in the room, for all the world like muffled drums, and a picture appeared which showed a crowd of scruffy soldiers clambering out of a trench.

The image changed to that of another dishevelled crowd, each man’s eyes bandaged and his right hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him as they shambled along a path in single file…then to a smaller crowd, gathered round a grave where a padre seemed to be saying prayers. Then - more gruesomely - the image on the screen was of bodies hanging on barbed wire, an aeroplane plunging to the ground in flames, a skeleton lying in the entrance to a collapsed dugout. 

“Do you recognise it, then?” the disembodied voice asked him. “It’s just about your piece de resistance.”

“You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,” he mumbled in response, his face pale and his hands shaking. 

“Maybe not,” the voice told him. “But you haven’t seen it all yet.”

He was unable to tear his eyes from the screen as a small squad of soldiers marched across it; they continued down a street and into a large, windowless brick building which bore a faded sign reading _Abattoir, Mazinherbe_. Once inside the building they stumbled to a halt, looking around with unease if not distress as a sergeant passed along the line handing each man a rifle. 

A door opened at the far end of the brick building, and another small group of figures emerged; an officer led two men who dragged another between them, placing him nerveless and unresisting in a chair against the wall. His feet were tied to the chair legs and his arms behind it, while the sergeant produced a small white cloth which was pinned to the sitting man’s chest; as the sergeant moved away, leaving the seated figure in dreadful isolation, its head came up and the voice was heard again.

“Don’t you recognise me now? You signed my death warrant in 1916.”

He wished more than anything that he could avert his eyes, but they remained fixed and unblinking on the nightmare scene while his hands gripped the chair arms until his knuckles turned white. He sensed rather than heard the words of command, followed by the crack of rifle fire – then suddenly, obscenely, the head of the seated figure sagged as a cluster of red holes appeared in the white cloth and blood gushed down the man’s khaki tunic. 

Once more the voice was heard, but it was now a mere haggard whisper. “And now we’re together for all eternity,” it said. “The seminar continues in an hour’s time.”

At last his trance broke and he hauled himself to his feet, staggering across the room to the table; he picked up the folder and opened it, finding it empty except for a small newspaper clipping which fluttered down to the floor. With shaking hands, he picked it up – and as he read it, something thudded dully inside his head while a mist covered his eyes.

_HAIG, Douglas, First Earl Haig._  
Suddenly at Bemersyde, January 29th1928.  
Greatly missed by his wife and family.


End file.
